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Ah! surely round her place of rest I should not let the coarse weed twine, Who every path by sorrow prest, With pure benevolence hath blest, And scattered such perfumes on mine; It is not meet, that she should be Forgotten, or unwept by me.

My plants, that in your hallowed beds, Like strangers, raise your trembling heads, Drink the pure dew that evening sheds, And meet the morning's earliest ray, And catch the sunbeams when they play; And if your cups are filled with rain, Shed back those drops in tears again; Or if the gale that sweeps the heath, Too roughly o'er your leaves should breathe, Then sigh for her, and when ye bloom, Scatter your fragrance o'er her tomb.

But should ye, smit with terror, cast Your blighted blossoms on the blast, Or faint beneath the vertic heat, Or fail when wintry tempests beat, There is a plant of deeper bloom, Whose leaves shall deck this honor'd tomb, Not bianch'd with frost, or parch'd for rain, Or by the wrath of winter slain,